


Always to be Blest

by Edgedancer



Series: An Essay on Troll [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternia, Ashen Romance | Auspistice, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Troll Gills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5216960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edgedancer/pseuds/Edgedancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Compared to the absolute certainty of violent death at your heels, the large probability of an even more gruesome death is practically comforting.</p><p>Karkat's having a bad night. Eridan's having a bad sweep. Maybe they can help each other out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> “Hope springs eternal in the trollish breast:  
> Troll never is, but always to be blest:  
> The soul, uneasy and confined from home,  
> Rests and expatiates in a life to come.”
> 
> \--Troll Robert Frost

> Karkat: Run.

Yeah, you got that, thanks! Any other pearls of wisdom to suggest?! You have been running (well tripping and falling in spurts but whatever) for what feels like hours.

You contemplate taking a moment to rest, but you can still hear them behind you, so that isn't an option. You would admire their perseverance if you weren't so busy being terrified and also furious. 

They came at night, of course. You'd been on your husktop, reaming Gamzee out for his latest episode of stupidity, when you'd heard a loud crash from in front of your hive. By the time you had made your way down the stairs to see the window shattered, Crabdad had been outside confronting a mob of your neighbors. You didn't see what they were doing or who had thrown the rock. What you did see, what will be burned onto the back of your eyelids for the rest of your (probably very short) life, was the expression on your neighbors' faces when your dad turned so that the small cut on his back was revealed to the crowd.

Your life has never been happy, overshadowed by constant paranoia and self-loathing. But tonight has destroyed even the fantasy that you could one day overcome your legion of issues. There is no salvation at the end of this chase, just the business end of someone's weapon. Even if you manage to lose them (haha keep dreaming) your hive is gone and Crabdad—

Well, he's gone too. 

You've had encounters before and gotten out of them basically fine, but you're not stupid enough to think you can survive without a guardian, let alone a hive. Forget other trolls, wild animals, the undead hordes, or even starvation– you'll be dead as soon as the sun comes up. The universe has finally gotten tired of playing and made its move. It's been watching you get fat on false hope for the past sweep, like a meowbeast stalking an oblivious hummingbird. This chase is the final entertainment before it washes you in the leisure lake and eats you for dinner.

But damn you if you're going to make it easy. You put on a burst of speed, and in a turn of events so surprising you might look into Gamzee's nutcase juggalo cult, the ground over the next hill is sandy and the air is full of the sound of waves.

While visiting the sopor-addled idiot's hive in the past, you've professed a hatred of the sea and swimming in general. This was not totally untrue; only a dumb highblood like him would be stupid enough to live that close to seadweller territory. But compared to the absolute certainty of violent death at your heels, the large probability of an even more gruesome death is practically comforting.

Without taking the time to assess the stupidity of your actions, you yank off your sweater, kick off your shoes and dash into the water. Behind you, you hear the sound of idiots trying to run on sand, and then a few splashes as they wade into the shallow water. You dive and struggle to hold your breath for as long as possible. You're barely at a safe distance before you succumb to the instinctual drive to get oxygen to your useless thinkpan.

Your gills gasp open and for the first time ever, the feeling of water flowing through your midsection makes you grin. Let's see those cowardly mouth-breathers follow me now, you think.

As you walk across the ocean bottom, fierce optimism staves off your hopeless thoughts— right up until ten thousand pounds of marine toothbeast slams into you like a freight train.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you. Give. Up.

[>Eridan: Be a real shark slayer.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5216960/chapters/12367106)


	2. Eridan: Be A Real Shark-Slayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate,_   
>  _All but the page prescribed, their present state_   
>  _From brutes what trolls, from trolls what spirits know:_   
>  _Or who could suffer being here below?”_

>Eridan: Be a real shark-slayer.

You prefer to think of yourself as a hero, killing only to save millions from death by glub and to shield the fragile princess from the job. Also you try to go after larger stuff like whales because it's more efficient.

(You do love that movie though.)

Anyway, there don't seem to be any sharks in your territory right now. Your dad generally monitors the area for danger, whether it be wild beasts or wild trolls. Killing lusii has only ever made you one friend, after all.

Speaking of her, you haven't talked to Feferi since yesternight. You open up your husktop, and just as you are about to open Trollian, a window pops up— looks like she had the same idea.

cuttlefishCuller [CC] began trolling caligulasAquarium [CA]  
  
CC: )(-ELLO!  
CA: hey fef  
CA: glub  
CC: Glub yours)(ellf!  
CA: uh yeah  
CA: so wwhats up  
CC: T)(e moon!  
CA: anything else  
CC: Not reelly! W)(at's up with YOU?  
CA: nothin  
CC: WOW, we are so boring! S)(ouldn't we have somet)(ing to talk about? We are MORAY-EELS!  
CA: ok  
CA: wwell  
CA: howw are aradia and vvris  
CC: FRUSTRATING as usual!  
CC: Do you know w)(at Aradia did yesternight?  
CA: no  
CA: wwhat  
CC: S)(E STOLE VRISKA'S CAP-----E!  
CA: wwhat  
CA: the ratty blue one vvris runs around in wwhen shes pretendin to be mindfang  
CC: YES!  
CA: wwoww  
CA: megidos got guts  
CC: Don't sound so IMPR-ESSED! Now I )(ave to keep t)(em from KRILLING eac)( ot)(er!  
CA: yeah wwell  
CA: im sure youre up to the task fef  
CA: and you wouldnt be ash for them if they didnt drive you up the ceiling supporter  
CC: SIG)(.  
CC: I guess you're rig)(t.  
CA: wwhen am i not  
CC: 38P  
CC: T)(anks for t)(e support anyway!  
CA: thats wwhat moirails are for i guess  
CC: Y---EA)(!  
CC: You know, I'm glad to )(ear you say t)(at.  
CA: wwhat  
CA: wwhy  
CC: I don't know, I just remember that for a w)(ale t)(ere I felt like you weren't interested in being toget)(er anymore.  
CA: wwhat  
CA: fef no  
CA: wwhy wwouldn't i be interested  
CC: Well, you just didn't seem t)(at finterested in ME sometimes!  
CC: Actually, MOST of the time!  
CC: I t)(oug)(t you didn't want to talk about my problems because you were too busy t)(inking about YOURS)(----ELLF!  
CA: oh  
CA: uh  
CC: It's reelly glubbing nice to get t)(at off my chest!  
CC: I didn't want to say anyfin before, but now t)(ings are going swimmingly, I t)(oug)(t I s)(ould!  
CC: )(onesty is s)(rimportant in a moirallegiance after all!  
CA: can i be honest and point out the silliness a makin a pun on important wwhen its already got port in it  
CC: NO, YOU CAN'T! 38P  
CA: alright, your imperious cod-dissension  
CC: 38O  
CC: )(ow dare you... ORP)(ANER DROOLSCAR!  
CA: ...  
CA: i just wwon at fish puns  
CA: against feferi peixes  
CA: run for shelter the wworld is endin  
CC: 38/  
CA: hey cmon fef i deservve this one  
CC: Fine. But you're a terribubble winner!  
CA: but you lovve me anywway  
CC: Yes, I love you anyway.  
CA: i lovve you too fef  
CC: <>  
CA: <>

You slump in your chair. That pointy little diamond popped your exhilaration like Fef's trident pops bubbles, and now you just feel deflated. 

The fact is that you _aren't_ that interested in Fef, not pale. Moirails are supposed to improve each other, and honestly she's so amazing you wouldn't even know where to begin. More than that, though, you feel like there's a certain distance between you as moirails, and you've always believed that matespritship would close that distance and let you be together for real.

You never realized that Fef was feeling that distance too, and you never thought that it might be your fault. Now you feel guilty for keeping secrets, but even as you consider confessing your feelings to her for the thousandth time, you stop yourself. You have to stick to the plan, keep getting close to her until she falls flush on her own. You'd known it would be hard when you'd come up with the idea. Past you would sneer at you for losing your nerve, say you were going soft.

Just as you begin to wonder if you _are_ going soft, and whether that might actually get you more friends, a loud noise shakes you out of your thoughts. At first you think it's the chime of Feferi trying to talk to you on Trollian— actually that is going off kinda insistently— but what caught your attention was the whinny of your dad. He glides into the block, and proceeds to tell you that a seadweller has intruded on your territory, as has a shark lusus. And both are headed towards your ship.

You drop a quick message to Fef so she doesn't flip out, grab the Crosshairs, and jump on your dad's back. You don't wonder if you're defending yourself or just hunting for Gl'bgolyb's dinner; at this point, they're one and the same.

***

Five minutes later, your dad stops over a seemingly random spot of ocean. You stare into the water, and almost laugh at what you see— instead of both moving to attack you as you'd been expecting, the shark and the troll are fighting each other. Or, well, the troll is trying to fight the shark; the shark is just killing the troll, unfazed. As you can tell the troll has no weapon— they're dead meat. You consider.

Finally, you pull out your gun. You don't especially care about saving this kid— they were stupid enough to trespass on your territory, stupid enough to swim around without a weapon. But the shark will be a decent snack, and since you're here...

For anyone else, the shot would have been impossible. You're sitting on the back of a seahorse, trying to correct for refraction and hit a moving target. But you are no normal hunter— not only do you have years of practice and a great eye, you have the Ahab's Crosshairs.

Even legend has no idea where the rifle came from, but history books claim that it was once thought to be a useless piece of junk. The beam was sometimes amazingly powerful, but so unreliable and jagged that you couldn't hit the broad side of a domesticated animal storage hive with it. 

Then Orphaner Dualscar came along and used it to become the greatest marksman in history. No one knew how he got it to work, but work it did. He could fry the antenna off a flutterbug at a distance where most couldn't even make out the wings flapping, or take out half a pirate armada without even charring the seadweller troops below. Or the cerulean psychic in the crow's nest, but that's beside the point, which is that he turned a legendary hunk of trash into the weapon with the second highest kill count ever (after the Condesce's trident) and absolutely no one knows how.

Except you, of course. Sort of.

You pull the gun up— or down, weird as shooting into the ocean is— and fire without thinking too hard about your aim. Your lusus has learned to move smoothly with the recoil so you can shoot like this without breaking an arm.

As the beam seems to go wide, you hold the gun straight, and concentrate on that big shark. The white light veers toward the darkening water, but seems to bend away once it breaches the surface. You concentrate on how happy Fef will be when she can feed it to her mom— closer— how some random kid is about to lose his dad— away again— how Fef is never going to lose her mom— almost there— and how when she's got the throne, she'll see how much you did to put her there, and maybe finally understand what you really want in return.

Your shot goes straight through the beast's head; Fef prefers clean kills, she doesn't mind death but she hates suffering. You're about to direct your dad back home— he can drop you off and collect the body without you, no way you're ruining these clothes in that bloody mess— when you see the color of the blood in the water.

It's Feferi's shade exactly. 

For a moment you think the troll was her, are about to dive in and hope she isn't hurt as badly as you had thought, but sense stops you. You were just talking to Fef, there's no way she got here that quickly, not to mention she could easily handle a shark and would never leave her trident at home.

Still, that color bears investigation. You captchalogue your cape, shoes, rings, and gun— all they'll do is get wet and weigh you down. Sadly, you can't save the other clothes, but you suppose they can be replaced. Finally you switch your glasses for goggles— these dorky things are the reason you never swim.

But you let yourself fall into a smooth dive. The drop is nothing, and your gills smoothly take over the process of keeping you alive. You've heard some people's gills take a while to adjust if they don't use them much, but you've never had that problem. Perhaps it's the long time spent soaking in your bathtub idly wondering if the rumors about landdwellers getting wrinkly skin if they sit in water too long are true.

You reach the troll and do a double take— the water around you is definitely not violet, but you don't think there's ever been a male Heiress before. You wonder what the word for that would be. Heiro? Heirer? Inheritor? Just heir? That sounds like you're talking about the thing you breathe...

The kid's arm drifts toward you, and you grab it without really thinking. Then you start to toward the surface. You might as well see if he can be saved— seadwellers are pretty hardy, and you want to question him. It occurs to you that another heiress might be a threat to Feferi, but you figure this kid is so inept that you'll be able to kill him later if he gets any ideas. Wandering randomly around the ocean unarmed indeed.

Your dad can't fit you both on his back and this kid is too unconscious to do anything on his own, so you grab onto your lusus's tail with your other hand and let him tow you home. By the time you get there, your arms are beginning to tire and you are beginning to wish you could captchalogue living people.

As you drag the kid onto your hive deck, you wonder if that's possible. You've heard of people putting animals in their sylladex, but you don't think you've heard anything about trolls. Maybe you should try it out some time, in the name of science. Sylladices honestly scare you if you think about the mechanics too long, but a little experimentation to see what can be done with them can't hurt, right?

Speaking of sylladices, you switch out the goggles for your glasses. As your vision gets clearer, you realize that you haven't updated the correction of your goggles in over a sweep. You should probably do that soon. You glance down at the kid to see if he's waking up, then drop him in horror. Had the shark bitten off his fins?

No, wait, there's no blood coming from his head. Anyway he has got something there after all, what look like... landweller ears? 

You glance down at his torso automatically to check that you really saw gills through that torn up shirt— you did— and then you freeze and stand back before you even know why. After a moment it occurs to you— that is not Feferi's color anymore than it is yours, or anyone's ever.

You equip your gun and aim it right between the eyes, eyes that are opening to reveal newly-turning irises in incriminating, bright, sickening red. 

As you are about to pull the trigger and wipe this abomination off the face of the planet before it can infect the entire race of trolls, it locks gazes with you. For a moment, it seems to look straight into your soul, and its repulsive eyes gleam with hope. Then it notices the gun pointed at hi- it- and the eyes shutter, seemingly resigned.

You stumble back. You've killed plenty of trolls before, crazy ones wanting revenge for their murdered lusii, and weirdoes with interest in Fef, and just regular kids who got in your (or Vris's) way in FLARP. None of them has ever looked at you with that sort of hope in their eyes.

In fact, the only person who has ever looked at you like that, like they knew you and believed in you anyway, is Fef. You want to argue that this isn't a troll at all, and the idea that this near-animal can remind you of her in any way is awful, but you remember her crazy stupid redefinition of culling and imagine her eyes closing off just like his when she finds out about this. You don't think you could bear it.

You stare at those red gills and the sight still makes you want to puke and kill something, but you can't raise your gun against it without seeing her eyes, and you've never killed another troll while Feferi watched before.

You can't cleanse trollkind of this mutant. You can't destroy his hope.

Your name is Eridan Ampora, and you are no kind of prince.

[>Eridan: Be an excellent host](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5216960/chapters/14856271)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pesterlogs are a joy. I fought with the opening line of the pesterlog for at least 20 minutes, and it refused to center, so I just added a space. It's bothering me, though, so if anyone wants to help that would be great.


	3. Eridan: Be an Excellent Host

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things_   
>  _To low ambition, and the pride of kings._   
>  _Let us (since life can little more supply_   
>  _Than just to look about us and to die”_

> Eridan: Be an excellent host.

Well, you suppose if you aren't going to kill the mutant, you might as well betray your beliefs entirely and invite him in. You do nothing by half-measures.

Pulling yourself together after your mild breakdown, you turn back to the kid and run into a problem: he's passed out again. Wonderful.

You've just dragged the useless idiot into the first room on your ship when you hear your dad approaching. As much of a relief as it would be to have your dad take care of this mess with the same silent head-strike he uses on crabs, at this point you've spent too much emotional and physical energy on this kid to let him go. So you traipse outside to convince your lusus to leave without coming in and seeing those very illegal gills.

This is easier than you'd expected. With all the drama you'd basically forgotten about the shark you'd killed, but it's not too difficult to convince your dad to take it around to Fef's; he'd have to do it eventually anyway, might as well get it done now, right?

You go back inside and hoist the other troll onto your shoulders, making your way to the first mate's cabin.

Your dad's trip should buy you until tomorrow midnight— great as he is, your lusus hasn't noticed how close to day it is, and even though he could travel underwater you know he won't mind staying with Fef, and she'll love having him around. Hopefully you'll be rid of the freak by then and go back to life as usual.

***

This seems less likely a few hours later; you've treated the wounds and had another moment of nausea over the color of the blood, and the kid still hasn't woken up. Judging by his wounds, though, you'd be surprised if he had. It will take him nights to recover, at the least; he's lost an obscene amount of blood.

Of course, it might not have anything to do with that. You know landdwellers aren't as resilient as seadwellers, and that lowbloods live pathetically short lives. Maybe this kid is dying of old age.

You can't stop thinking of him as a kid now; though actually he seems to be about your age, he's so short and his horns are so underdeveloped that he looks childlike. Judging by the nasty scars, though, he's quite a warrior. You wonder what life must be like as a mutant; he must have had to kill all the people who gave him those scars purely in self defense. Fef is one of a kind, and apparently it's rubbing off on you; no other troll would hesitate to cull a disgusting gilled blood mutant.

As you watch from a creaky old wooden chair, the disgusting gilled blood mutant surfaces from the 'coon a little. No other part of him moves as those red-splotched eyes slowly scan the room through short eyelashes until they land on you. Your second time locking gazes is very different from the first; there's no intense soul-searching here, just sleepy confusion. 

Your earfins flick forward as you lean forward in interest, diverting his gaze. He straightens up suddenly, then stares in mystification at the bright green slime sliding off his bandaged chest. When he looks back at you, there's a lot more alertness and challenge mixed in with the confusion.

You have absolutely no idea what to say to him, and in your moment of utter speechlessness, your first socialization schoolfeed takes over. _{Name and sign.}_ "I'm Eridan Ampora," you blurt, "Aquarius."

He rolls his eyes. You glare. "Shut up, I saved your life."

What seems to start out as a laugh turns into the most horrific coughing fit you've ever heard, as if he's hacking up a bunch of rusty nails through a throat full of sandpaper.

"I'll get you some water," you toss over your shoulder as you flee that godawful noise. You hope he doesn't have internal injuries. He didn't seem to be in pain, and you didn't see any blood coming up, but then again you got out of there pretty quickly.

Your guilt disappears when, returning to the room with glass in hand, you find him peacefully unconscious once more.

***

After realizing that he was just sleeping and not in a coma, you leave. It was a little creepy watching him sleep, and anyway you have things to do.

You sit down at your husktop and open Trollian. To your surprise, someone trolls you right away, and it's not Feferi.

\-- arsenicCatnip [AC] began trolling caligulasAquarium [CA]\--  
  
AC: :33 < *the mighty huntress bounds to the shore with a juicy piece of meat*  
AC: :33 < *she shakes it above the water, hoping to attract the attention of a furrocious sea beast with the sweet blood!*  
CA: aradia stole vvris's cape  
CA: yesternights news meowbeast  
AC: :33 < *ac yowls as the toothbeast darts from the water, attempting to steal her prize!*  
AC: :33 < *but... he fails*  
AC: :33 < try again! *ac pawnts cheekily*  
CA: are wwe seariously goin ta do this  
CA: just spill the legumes already  
AC: :33 < vwhiskers fed aradia's skull to her spidermom!  
CA: uh  
CA: im assumin you dont mean her actual skull  
AC: :33 < no you dumb fish  
AC: :33 < the mother grub skull she found last sweep  
CA: last swweep i didnt knoww aradia existed  
CA: or you either for that matter  
CA: the amount of dirtbloods i knoww has increased alarmingly  
AC: :33 < well if you're going to be all offensive ill just go!  
CA: shore  
CA: get your gutter mud off my screen  
CA: i wwont miss it  
AC: :33 < fine, be that way!  
CA: if you mean completely glubbin perfect  
CA: am i evver not  
AC: :33 < ugh  
AC: :33 < youre such a rude jerk  
CA: actually its you wwhos disrespecting your better  
AC: :33 < just for that, im leaving without telling you the rest of the mews!  


You snort. All of your conversations with Nepeta go something like that, although this one was short even by your standards. There's been worse, though: the first time she contacted you about five perigees ago, she'd had to come back three times before she finally managed to inform you she thought Vris's rivalry with Aradia was getting more than friendly. She'd conspired with you to set the them and up with Feferi, and since then she's come to you with every tidbit she finds by sticking her wet nose in other people's business. Nepeta never really understood that you only cared about the whole affair because you didn't want to lose Vriska as your kismesis (which ended up happening anyway); she thinks you're a busybody shipper like her. Maybe it's because you've sometimes indulged her discussions of fictional romances. Very occasionally. 

Really.

Anyway, her news was probably just more petty gossip about people you don't care about. Just as you shut off Trollian and start your usual routine of trawling history sites, the Trollian icon starts flashing. She really can't stand to keep anything to herself. You decide to let her sit until she regrets what she said; imagine, _her_ calling _you_ rude! Maybe you should cut off Nepeta and her naïve disrespect permanently.

You settle in to watch a video on the naval unit involved in crushing the Summoner's rebellion. Vriska brags about her Gamblignant ancestor, but a few violetblood ships crushed her entire outdated fleet. However strong the land might seem, the sea will wear it away in the end, because _it_ is indestructible. You get so involved in the video that you don't notice when Trollian stops flashing.

As you close the lid of your husktop hours later, though, you wonder what Nepeta would think about the troll in your spare recuperacoon.

***

The next time the kid wakes up you know it's for real because he comes and finds you. More accurately, he bumps into you in the hallway as you are about to come check on him. He's wearing a thick black turtleneck that he must have had captchalogued. It's heavy enough that it barely even bulges around the bandages on his chest, but he shivers anyway. You suppose a comfortable temperature for you– for most– is far too cold for him. The symbol on his chest is picked out in neat grey thread, and you wonder if he sewed it himself. For a moment, the shape reminds you of something, though you can't quite recall what.

He crosses his arms self-consciously over it and you wrench your eyes up to his face. Eyebrows furrowed, he glares at you, and you blush. He snorts but seems slightly less angry. 

"Oh, cut the attitude," you snap, though you honestly find it a bit hilarious. He's a head shorter than you and he tilts his head as if he wants to stab you under the chin with his nub horns. You remind yourself that the kid is in a random troll's hive and is probably extremely frustrated right now. "So what's your name? And what were you doing in my territory— did you want to get torn to pieces?"

He looks you up and down without responding. "Hello? Anyone home?" Maybe he's mentally deficient, though he seemed to understand you earlier. Maybe you mentioning getting torn to pieces scared him— though he should know how dangerous violet-bloods are already. You step forward, trying not to look too threatening, though a lifetime of the opposite effort probably makes this useless.

As soon as you move, he darts past you, whizzing by before you even register motion. By the time you turn around, he's skidding around the corner. He obviously has no idea where he's going, but he's incredibly fast, and the randomness actually makes him harder to catch. 

You hear clanks from one room and run into the armory— you don't have time to check if anything's missing because he's already gone through the next door. The leisure block leads to the old crew quarters, and then after another long hallway you actually catch a glimpse of him taking a breath in the galley, but he bounds up as soon as he sees you and the chase begins again.

He seems to be heading downward, you realize after two ladders. You think so until you reach the second-lowest floor, at which point you see a foot disappearing up the ladder at the opposite end of the hallway. He's faster than you, a gutterblood trait, but he shouldn't have this much stamina; you're not in the least bit tired either, but you were built to spend half your life swimming. The only reason you've kept up with him is a few lucky shortcuts when you thought he'd shaken you.

You're following him up the final ladder leading to the deck when you suddenly think to wonder why you bothered chasing him around; he's obviously trying to leave, and you have zero objection to this. Now that you're up top, though, you might as well make sure he goes.

The first thing you notice when you pull yourself onto the deck is the kid panting and holding onto the side railing. As you wonder why he hasn't just hopped it and been gone, you notice the second thing: pelting rain, cold even on your seadweller skin.

Distant thunder a moment later makes it clear why he hasn't left; you cover your eyes and feel the lightning-heat sting your arms. A jolt of instinctive light-fear ripples down your spine, and you are suddenly very glad your dad fixed the rubber coat on your hull last perigee; the surface discharge of that last strike would probably have set the ship on fire otherwise. 

When you look up to the answering roll of thunder, the kid has pulled out a short sword- yours- and is giving you a look you really don't like. So you equip your gun.

This distance is point-blank for you, but way too far for him to get even one hit in, and from the look in his eyes, he knows it. You honestly wouldn't be opposed to blasting him if he tries to jump you, but...

"Put that away and come inside before there's another lightning strike." His hand tightens around the blade and his eyes dart toward the water. "Don't be dumb, kid, you'll never get anywhere in that storm. I haven't killed you yet, I'm not going to change my mind."

He glances nervously at the sky, then puts the sword away. You make a mental note that he's armed, then slide hurriedly down the ladder as the rain pounds down harder. You hear footsteps pounding across the deck and step out of the way. He basically falls through the hatch as another clap of thunder booms, and from the way he rubs at his eyes you can tell he was only just shutting them when the light hit. He recovers quickly enough, though, so you just close the door and don't worry about whether he's gone blind.

He follows you down to the galley and watches you make tea in unnerving silence, relying on an early schoolfeed for recommended preparation instead of your normal unmodified brew _{two spoons of sugar, this much milk...}_. Your neck prickles as his eyes follow the cup being set in front of him, but you don't want to set him off again so you wait for him to speak first.

You're halfway through your cup when you lose patience with that. He's still gazing distrustfully into his cup despite watching you through every step of the process and seeing you drink the same stuff, but he looks up quickly when you speak. 

"So what's your name? Unless you want me to keep calling you kid." 

He glares at you. You stare back. Finally, he jabs a finger at his chin– no, his neck, where there's a thick, horizontal pinkish-white line— a badly-healed scar, you realize. 

He shakes and makes another awful noise, a rough wheeze that's all breath, and his expression is so painfully frustrated that it takes you a moment to realize that he's trying to laugh at you. Trying, because that scar right over where his vocal cords would be.

Your new mutant friend is mute.

[>Eridan: Try to Understand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5216960/chapters/16443916)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if anyone got several notifications or something; mistakes were made that had to be fixed.
> 
> By the way, I started a [tumblr!](radiantmists.tumblr.com) If I ever draw anything for a story, it will go up there. If you have any questions, you can also ask them there (or here. Questions are always great!).


	4. Eridan: Try to Understand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Presumptuous troll! the reason wouldst thou find,_   
>  _Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind?_   
>  _First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,_   
>  _Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less;"_

>Eridan: Try to Understand

You take pride in being one of the most intelligent trolls you know, and in your ability to predict the actions of others and factor them into your battle strategy. None of this helps to decipher what is happening in front of you.

You're aware that the troll is attempting to communicate with you with his flailing gestures, but honestly they just look like, well... flailing. After a few bemused moments, you reach in and rescue his mug before he sweeps it right off the table. He jerks his arms away from yours before folding them against his chest and snarling—or at least it looks like a snarl, the familiar flash of teeth but all silent.

Why does this happen to you? You never asked for a crippled blood mutant to show up in your territory right before a lightning storm. He's incredibly lucky you didn't cull him or even just leave him to die on the ocean floor, but of course the ungrateful scumblood is just growling at you and rejecting your magnanimous generosity. 

(Not that mercy is something to be proud of, but seeing as it saved his life the kid should be groveling at your feet, not passing judgement on your untrollishness.) 

You are jolted out of your irritation by the sound of him slamming his fist on the solid wooden table. You snort as he shakes his hand out, and receive another glare. Finally, he goes back to his gestures, but this time they seem more purposeful; his arm moves in straight lines from right to left along the table, wrist twisting back and forth and fingers holding some imaginary object.

"...Oh! Writing, right." His wry eyeroll tells you you've gotten it right even before he nods in exaggerated confirmation.

You stand up to go look for some writing equipment, then consider all the sharp instruments in the kitchen and how he's shown no interest in his tea anyway, and finally gesture for him to follow.

***

In the study, you open a dusty drawer in a creaking desk. You haven't used an actual sheet of purified tree bark in a while, and you have to dig through an old stash of dried-out purple gel pens before you find an archaic graphite stick that's actually sharpened. 

As soon as you hand him the stick, the kid swoops into the single chair and starts scribbling furiously. After a moment, you drag over a side table and sit on it. You tower over him, but that would have happened anyway.

He taps the graphite stick on the table impatiently, and you peer at his unusually neat handwriting.

WHAT IN THE NAME OF NOON'S RAGING SUNBEAMS IS GOING ON?

You snort. You don't know why you weren't expecting this. "You got into a fight with a shark and lost. I saved your disgusting mutant carcass from it and then decided letting you die would be a waste of my valuable effort. Now there's a lightning storm."

He stares at you searchingly. You hope he's not actually dumb enough to ask why you didn't cull him, because honestly, you don't know the answer either.

After a moment, he goes back to writing.

OK, I'LL IGNORE THAT STEAMING PILE OF HOOFBEAST EXCREMENT IN FAVOR OF A NEW QUESTION: WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

"Something to call you besides 'kid' would be nice."

KARKAT VANTAS.  
CANCER.

There is a long silence. You have so many questions– why was he in your territory, completely unarmed? How did he survive the trials and get a sign and lusus? How did he get the wound that cost him his voice? What was he going to do in just over a sweep at conscription? Why did he have gills but not fins?

You wonder if you even want to know anything about him. Wouldn't you rather just get rid of him once the storm blows over and forget he ever existed?

Finally, he makes a move, underlining his earlier question.

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

The silence stretches on. You realize the tapping isn't just thought— it's anxiety. It hits you that you hold Karkat's life in your hands. He's weak and injured and essentially imprisoned in your home. You are a healthy violetblood; even without your very impressive gun, everything from your white fangs (designed for ripping meat) to your carefully manicured hands (capable of snapping a neck with a flick of the wrist) is a deadly weapon. You're strongly resistant to psychic talents, not that he seems to have any. Next to Feferi and Her Imperious Condescension themselves, you are the pinnacle of troll evolution, and Karkat Vantas is, supposedly, the weakness it's grown out of, the cancer your race has burned away through thousands of sweeps of brutal selection of traits.

If he grew up with any access to trollish culture– and he must have, just to be able to write– Karkat Vantas knows that it is your purpose to destroy him, wipe him out of the gene pool completely. No one will miss him when he's gone, he's a cripple, voiceless in every sense of the word. The only reason you would have left him alive, from his point of view, is if you wanted something that you couldn't have if he was dead. 

And maybe you do, though nothing in the vein he's probably thinking of. As you stare at the question glaring out from the page, you wonder what you were expecting to happen when you decided not to pull the trigger.

Finally, you give your best answer: "I don't know."

But once again, he's fallen asleep.

***

On reflection, you decide to let him sleep. That chase through the ship combined with his injuries would make anyone tired. At the same time, you can't be bothered to manhandle him into a recuperacoon again, so you decide to let him get muscle cramps from sleeping in that ancient chair. 

You move next door into your computer room. As nice as living in a piece of military history may be, you're glad for the areas that are more modernized. You don't know what people did without computers.

Speaking of which, your internet connection is down, probably because of the storm. Trollian has some cached messages, though, probably the ones you ignored earlier.

You feel a little guilty when you realize they were actually from Fef, not Nepeta as you'd thought.

\-- cuttlefishCuller [CC] began trolling caligulasAquarium [CA] \--  
CC: Eridan!  
CC: You were JUST )(ER--E!  
CC: Come back!  
CC: I guess you've turned your )(usktop off.  
CC: Well, I s)(rimply wanted to let you know t)(at I'm going to Fis)(ka's )(ive.  
CC: S)(e and Aradia had a fig)(t and broke a w)(ole glubbin ton of )(er stuff, so I need to auspisticize and kelp rebuild.  
CC: Your dad is giving me a ride!  
CC: Glubby says t)(anks for t)(e snack, by t)(e way!  
CC: O)( and be careful! It looks like t)(ere's a storm coming. You s)(oaldn't go outside.  
CC: <>  


You really should have answered. Not only would you have liked to know where Feferi and your dad are, but she warned you about the storm. But nothing untoward happened so you suppose it's alright.

There's a resounding crash from the study, and you sigh internally. Correction: nothing untoward happened _due to the storm._

***

When you walk into the room, it looks as though the kid-- Karkat-- has opened the porthole to let the gale in. But in fact, the transparent pane (which darkens automatically when it's bright) is perfectly intact.

This stands in stark contrast with the rest of the room; the heavy wooden desk has been overturned and the uncomfortable antique chair lies in two pieces against the bookshelf. Your pens are scattered over the floor, and your short sword is embedded several inches into the wall. In the center of it all is Karkat, breathing heavily and with a wild look in his eyes. Clutched tight in his hand is the graphite stick, which comes up to point threateningly at you.

Suddenly you understand what's happened. In your defense, sleeping without slime hasn't caused you dayterrors this bad since you were four. (Although occasionally you still wake up breathing hard, a grinning, bone-white face seared into your eyelids and mad laughter echoing in your ears.) You actually don't know anyone who kept having them after about six, though considering your ~~small~~ _elite_ social circle that isn't saying much.

Talking other trolls down from a fight isn't your strong suit; if anything, you have a completely involuntary talent at goading people. The first thing you do is captchalogue the short sword. _{In a confrontation, control of weapons is critical.}_ Karkat is obviously on a hair trigger, but in any case you prefer not to have unfamiliar trolls with sharp things in your hive.

The disappearance of the blade seems to jolt him out of his own head, and he looks around, taking in the mess he's made. He curls his lip in disgust at the scattered pens, then winces at the broken chair, eyes flashing to your face nervously.

"I'm a little more concerned about the hole in the wall," you tell him. Apparently your voice is calm enough that he's not worried, and he huffs before wandering over to inspect the damaged boards.

Carefully avoiding the pens, you approach the desk, wondering whether if you captchalogued and then ejected it, it would be replaced right-side up. You're strong enough to lift it, but it would be inconvenient.

You've decided the captchalogue solution is worth a shot and are just about to try it when you hear a creak and then a sharp snap. When you look up, you see that Karkat Vantas has ripped out a chunk of your wall. As you watch, he sticks his claws into the hole and starts pulling on the adjacent board.

"What the glub—" You cut off as another portion of the oddly thin plank snaps away, revealing a hollow space. Inside are several books, pages yellowing with age. The kid steps aside as you walk up to the hole he made and pull out the top book. It's bound in jet black, with a violet symbol just like the one on your chest adorning the front cover.

With hands that definitely don't shake, you open it to the first page, dated almost 1000 sweeps before your birth, and read:

I hope to one day meet you in person, but if not, this wvill have to suffice. Congratulations on inheriting the prestigious sign of Aquarius, Eridan Ampora.

[>Eridan: Boggle Vacantly at These Shenanigans](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5216960/chapters/18490771)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It's been a while...
> 
> That's the last big revelation for a while.
> 
> So! I recently(ish) created a tumblr at radiantmists.tumblr.com. Feel free to take a look! Also, as of right now, I am open to requests if you want to see a scene from a different point of view, or something from the past (such as how two characters met). If you're interested, either put it in a comment or send an ask!


	5. Eridan: Boggle Vacantly at These Shenanigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“All nature is but art, unknown to thee;_   
>  _All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;_   
>  _All discord, harmony not understood;_   
>  _All partial evil, universal good”_

>Eridan: Boggle vacantly at these shenanigans.

You're absolutely ready to do this. The only problem is that the book has slipped from your limp fingers to land on the floor with a loud thud.

You're vaguely aware that the kid is staring at you, but you honestly couldn't care less. He can do what he wants.

That opinion rapidly changes when he reaches out cautiously towards the book. You growl territorially and he jerks backward. It doesn't matter if he found it, that book is yours and yours only.

After all, it has your name in it.

When you sit down on the floor, it's as much because your legs feel like wet noodles as it is to pick the book back up.

I am Dualscar, the Empress' Orphaner. On this, my fifteenth wvriggling day, I begin the chronicle of my life, my great advwenture...

***

...And so, on the last dawn of my sixty-fifth swveep, I conclude this first installment of my wvisdom.

You close the back cover of the book. You reach over for the next one and notice your hand shaking. The image is captivating, though you can't quite grasp why. Your pale hand, covered in gold and studded with amethyst, shudders slightly in the warm green light of the rising moon.

Wait. The green moon rises at midnight. You started reading right around noon.

Carefully, you place the book back with its companions inside the wall. As you stand, blood rushes back into your legs, and you nearly crumple to the ground once again. Navigating around the upturned desk but not even bothering to avoid snapping the scattered pens, you leave the room, locking the door.

After a few necessary stops, your ravening hunger leads you to the kitchen. You open the refrigerator feeling as though you'll die of starvation, mind working sluggishly as you try to remember what you have that can be made quickly or simply consumed raw. Your eyes land on a covered plate, and you glance in at the food just long enough to confirm that it looks vaguely edible before stuffing it into your radiation cooker for the ten seconds demanded by the note on the lid.

Halfway through scarfing down what appears to be string pasta and meat clusters, you realize that your dad cannot write. You try to remember making this yourself and storing it for later, wondering why you would have written a note to yourself, as you continue eating.

Three-quarters of a large plate of food curdles in your digestion sac as you remember who else is in your home.

You drop the fork and try to run through the signs of poisoning. Is the trouble you have a symptom of your panic, or can it be traced to your impending death by neurotoxin? The clusters tasted like roe-- an attempt to hide the taste of poison? Abruptly feeling cold could simply be fear, or it could be the sign that your ability to maintain core temperature is failing. Your breath catches in your throat and you're not sure whether or not it's hysteria. Responding to the lack of oxygen, your gills flare frantically against the air. Dark spots dance in your vision, and you slide into a purple-black haze.

_{In case of poisoning, young trolls should retreat to recuperacoons. Sopor slime replaces normal breathing and life support functions, allowing toxins to be metabolized and flushed from the system without compromising health.}_

_{***}_

Waking up in sopor is, obviously, one of your oldest memories. For a moment you float, suspended, like a grub in an egg. Slime slides from your nose, then your mouth, and finally your gills as you lift yourself free and climb out of the recuperacoon. You've slept in your clothes, and you shove them into the laundry chute before rinsing off the remaining slime and getting dressed. Pink light is creeping through the porthole, meaning it's only been a couple hours since–

Wait. How did you get into the coon? You were in no state to remember how to save yourself— in fact, you think you might have passed out.

You notice a note on the inside of your door.

YOU HAD A PANIC ATTACK.

Several lines are thoroughly scratched out before the note-maker writes:

I DIDN'T POISON THE FOOD.

Is he telling the truth? Thinking back, you seem to have had many of the symptoms of a panic attack. But you've never had a breakdown like that before.

You open the door. Karkat is sitting against the wall opposite, but jumps up when he sees you.

"Why should I believe you?" you ask.

He pulls out the pencil and a sheet of paper— he must have captchalogued the whole bunch— and starts scribbling. He punches a few holes in the paper before turning in a huff to set it against the wall, and you make a note to order some notebooks with hard backs.

If you let him stay, of course.

I'LL EAT THE FOOD YOU LEFT IF YOU WANT ME TO PROVE IT.

You go to the kitchen. He eats the last quarter plate and doesn't seem to suffer any ill effects. He could be immune to things that poison trolls, in the same way that striped marine toothbeasts can eat pufferfish whole, but you're somewhat satisfied anyway.

But something still nags at you. How did you get back to your coon after you fainted? There's really only one explanation, but...

"Did you carry me to my coon?" _Why would you,_ you don't ask.

He squints at you as though you've grown a second head.

"How did I get there, then?"

He stares at you again, then seems to realize you actually want an answer.

YOU WALKED.

***

At ten swveeps, as is customary, I cast awvay my hatchname and created an adult name that I wvill carry until I leavwe this wvorld. Evwen to me, it sometimes seems incredible that only fivwe swveeps later, I havwe received a title as wvell. These moments quickly pass when I remember the look of horror on the last Orphaner's face before his lusus was vwaporised by the Crosshairs, or the sound of Her Imperious Condescension's laughter wvhen I presented her wvith his corpse.

She is divwine. If I had evwer had doubts ovwer the superiority of the seadwveller castes, they wvere assuaged by the sheer strength in her fuchsia eyes. As I made my case, I tried to match that strength in my owvn eyes.

"Your Imperial Majesty," I began grandly, "I havwe heard that you plan to expand beyond Alternia's atmosphere in the coming swveeps."

She said nothing, but her eyes held interest. I wvent on. "I havwe gathered that you will relocate to the pink moon wvithin the decade." A slight narrowving of her eyes confirmed my knowvledge. "A most awvesome step. But in the eyes of the dirtbloods, this wvill leavwe the seas, your home... vwulnerable." I shook my head. "Fallacy of course, but to manage such upstarts you'll need a strong, loyal admiral... Unlike this scum," I sneered as I shook wvhat wvas left of him by the hair. "I believwe I can help you."

Her laughter wvas delighted, and though I knewv it wvas the height of arrogance, I fell in lovwe. Evwen as she christened me her Orphaner to rule ovwer the Alternian seas, I knewv that my heart vwould nevwer belong to another.

***

You're ordering a schoolfeed on early space exploration when a very obvious question occurs to you. You carefully stow away the journal and go to find Karkat.

You wander through the narrow halls of the ship and feel an awe that hasn't visited you in sweeps. These walls contains such rich history and secrets, and the key to all of it is just waiting in the study. You've always believed that serendipity exists, but this is truly exceptional evidence. If you hadn't made the irrational decision of bringing a random troll home, you'd never have decided to start punching holes in the walls. You wonder why the Orphaner would have left it inside the wall of all places, but then you realize that he probably expected you to notice that the wall was unusually thick and also hollow. He probably hadn't expected you to move the study elsewhere as you had. As far as you can recall, you did it because the room you chose had a door that was inaccessible to your lusus, and you'd wanted a private place to converse with your friends without him sticking his snout in.

You eventually find Karkat on the deck, looking out over the ocean. You make your way over to the railing as loudly as possible, but he doesn't look at you. The lines of his body tense, and you note that he is quite well muscled for his size.

The ocean is beautiful, but nothing especially interesting is happening so you tire of staring at the glittering expanse after less than a minute.

"So," you say, and it's a little too loud so you adjust. "Do you have your paper? Because otherwise this will be a reel boring conversation."

He does nothing for a moment, though you can tell he heard because of the short flicker his eyes make toward you. Finally, he breathes a sigh through his nose and decaptchalogues the pencil and paper. His first comment is entirely predictable.

WHAT DO YOU WANT?

"Is that all you can say?" you quip. You are are rewarded by him actually turning his body in order to narrow his eyes at you.

ACTUALLY IT IS NOT, BRINESUCKER. ALL I CAN SAY IS:

He proceeds to wheeze unintelligibly at you. You snicker. He glowers.

SO WHAT WERE YOU GOING TO SAY?

Right. "Why didn't you leave? The storm passed hours ago."

He shifts. For once you are patient, staring at him until he puts pencil to page.

I GUESS I JUST DON'T KNOW WHERE TO GO.

_Go home_ , you don't say, because if that were an option he'd already be gone.

I WAS GOING TO A FRIEND'S HIVE BEFORE THE *SHARK* HAPPENED. BUT HE DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT

He pauses for a moment.

ME. I THINK HE WOULD BE OK WITH IT, BUT I CAN'T BE SURE.

Friends are meant to provide competition and entertainment, not consistent fear. While a little bit of mistrust is healthy, the idea of being stabbed by a friend over solely bloodcaste as opposed to a power play is frankly depressing.

You cast about for a change of subject and eventually an even more obvious question occurs to you.

"Why did you make me food?"

I DIDN'T. I COOKED, AND THEN THERE WAS EXTRA SO I PUT IT INTO THE HULL.

Suspicious again, you push harder. "That was a lot of extra. And why would you put roe into meat clusters?"

He looks away and doesn't answer, and you begin to wonder if he actually did try to poison you. You're about to open your mouth when he suddenly glances down at the paper before scrambling inside the ship.

You barely manage to catch the page before it's blown into the sea. Below the scrawled grey words there is a wet blotch of light red.

You stare at it for a long time.

[>Eridan: Ask him your questions, and get some answers.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5216960/chapters/19811335)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eridan, you're a hypocrite. Also perhaps losing your marbles? Hmm...
> 
> Questions? Thoughts? Comment below or talk to me at radiantmists.tumblr.com. Also, if you're interested in seeing a scene from another point of view or something from before the story began, you can request it!


	6. Eridan: Ask Him Your Questions, and Get Some Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Then in the scale of reasoning life, withal,_   
>  _There must be, somewhere, such a rank as troll:_   
>  _And all the question (wrangle e’er so long)_   
>  _Is only this, if God has placed him wrong?”_

>Eridan: Ask him your questions, and get some answers

The next evening you wake to someone banging on your coon. As soon as your eyes break the surface of the slime, a sheet of paper is shoved into your face.

THERE'S A DRONE OUTSIDE.

"Okay," you slur out, "So?" If he woke you up over a grocery delivery...

He jabs a finger at his eyes, which are looking a little wide and still alarmingly red.

You roll your own eyes as you get up. "If it was here about that, you think it would just sit there and wait?"

He gives you a mystified look, mouth pinching in thought.

"It's dropping off supplies," you snort at his confusion. "Now get out of my room."

A few minutes later, the kid is following you up through the ship, expression stormy. He stops abruptly just below the deck, so you climb up the last ladder alone.

There is indeed a drone. It's imposing: even without the head spike, it's half again as tall as you, and you're about as tall as adolescent trolls get. It is mouthless, noseless, and earless, and its eyes are a bright white that pop out against its black carapace. Unlike the similarly colored skin of adult trolls, you know that it is hard as a turtle's shell, capable of withstanding the bite of a crocodile or stopping a bullet. And this is just a delivery drone.

It holds out its signature pad, and you place your hand in the gel. The gel turns pink, having confirmed your DNA, and the drone pulls it back. Without further ado, it flies away.

It occurs to you that drones never talk, and with their distinct lack of mouths probably can't. They must have some mode of communication, right?

You pick up some boxes and slide down the ladder one-handed in a move you perfected at three sweeps. Your dad usually carries groceries into the house, and you're not looking forward to doing it yourself. The kid looks at you, eyebrows raised challengingly.

"It's gone," you say, and as you head for the next ladder, you're struck with an idea. Your dad isn't here to do it for you, but... "Would you help carry in the supplies?" You call without looking back. There's no response.

As you turn the corner, though, you hear a huff and then the clatter of the ladder.

***

When everything is put away, you sit at the galley table. The schoolfeed you ordered has arrived, and you're tempted to just take it now. It would glub up your nightly routine even worse than it already has been, but the journal has revealed a gap in your historical knowledge, and it would be nice to read the next few with the proper context.

The scratch of pencil on paper gets your attention. You wonder why the kid hasn't wandered off the way he has been over the last several nights. You wonder where he's been wandering off to the past couple of nights. You wonder why you've had a troll wandering around your house for the past couple nights. You wonder if whoever made up the word wonder just took wander and switched the vowel to make it apply to thoughts.

Once again, a paper is shoved in your face. "Mutie, you do that one more time and I'll bite your hand off," you growl. (A part of your mind preens at the clever double accuracy of mutie.)

He snatches the note back before you can read it and scribbled on the other side of the page:

FUN FACT REPETITION TIME FOR IMBECILES: I HAVE BEEN BLESSED WITH THE COLLECTION OF MOUTH SOUNDS KNOWN AS A NAME. IT'S KARKAT, NOT *MUTIE*, IN CASE THAT INFORMATION WAS ALSO TOO HARD FOR YOUR LEAKY SEIVE OF A THINKPAN TO HOLD.

There are several holes in the page where he jabbed it to create fullstops, and it occurs to you as you snicker that the capslock saves him from dotting i's and j's.

"Fine, Karkat. What were you going to say?"

He raises his eyebrows and turns the page back over for you.

WHERE'S YOUR LUSUS?

"Why?"

He shrugs.

I WANT TO KNOW HOW LONG I HAVE BEFORE I'M BRUTALLY MURDERED BY SOME AMPHIBIOUS MONSTROSITY.

He's not meeting your eyes, and you're reminded of a reddish splotch on a white piece of paper. An idea begins to form in your mind.

"He's gone," you say, and pause. 

Karkat stiffens noticeably. 

You continue, nonchalant. "He's giving my moirail a ride. Sometimes I think he likes her better than me. 'She's so well-spoken, doesn't leave scarves lying around,' you know how lusii are."

He doesn't answer, but his fingers are clenched tight around the pencil. You're definitely onto something. Time to go in for the kill...

"Where's your lusus?" you ask, and it was meant to sound casual but you think you know the answer and you're pretty sure the triumph showed in your voice, judging by the way he's glaring at you.

GONE.

And then so is Karkat.

***

It's surprising wvhat is the most pleasing aspect of my triumph. It is not the great powver I nowv hold, though certainly that is a great joy. Evwen my newvly discovwered lovwe for the exquidsite empress is as bitter as it is swveet, tempered as it must be by its forbidden nature. 

No, at this moment the most movwing thing I feel is the sense of rightness. Evwery caste, evwery troll, must havwe some purpose, that for wvhich he survwivwed the cavwerns and the brutal days in order to accomplish. In her infinite wvisdom, the first mother gavwe us all a place in this wvorld. I had heard and believwed all of this, but tonight is the first night wvhere I knowv it to be true.

Though it comes wvith its responsibilities and dangers, I wvould not givwe up this place for anything, not the freedom of the gamblignant, the wvildness of the dirtblooded beast-speakers, nor evwen the mighty powver of the Condesce.

This is wvhat wve wvere made for; howv could wve wvant more?  
  
***

You find Karkat again in the armory. As you watch from the doorway, he looks along the row of swords before pulling one down. It's a curved scimitar, a decidedly odd choice.

Apparently satisfied with the balance, he slides into one stance, then the next, not at full speed but controlled, perfectionist. He's getting used to the new weapon, finding the limitations of his injured body. Not for the first time, you're glad that you're not a melee fighter, that you rely on a good eye and a steady arm instead of speed and flexibility and brute strength.

Karkat picks up speed. Though you can see practice in his confident movements, his style is strange, all lunges and rolls and odd angles, little like the cuts and parries you remember from Vriska and other FLARPers. Then he makes a motion as if to pull his imaginary opponent down, and you realize that he must usually wield sickles, _{the weapon of the Threshecutioner, defenders of the purity of the Alternian race.}_

You imagine an older version of Karkat in the neat white uniform, herding criminals and keeping order. He quiets the unruly with a glare, snaps a wrist and a troll's neck. Though you've known him for a couple nights, there's surprisingly little dissonance in the image. 

Unbidden, another image fills your mind: a scarlet-blooded pupa picking up the weapon that was built to end his life. 

Karkat turns, following his routine, but you have already slipped away.

***

When you log on to your computer, there are some more messages from Feferi.

cuttlefishCuller [CC] began trolling caligulasAquarium [CA]  
  
CC: Eridan?  
CC: UG)(, w)(y are you still OFFLIN--E!  
CC: I guess you are doing somefin silly since your lusus isn't around.  
CC: Anyray, I just wanted to tell you t)(at I got to Fishka's )(ive.  
CC: It's not in very good s)(ape.  
CC: Of course, the two of t)(em are being NO KELP AT ALL.  
CC: Actually, I )(ave to go deal wit)( t)(em now.  
CC: Your dad and I s)(oald be back in a few days!  


She sent this yesterday evening, while you were reading the first journal. You wince in guilt as you read the bit about you doing something silly. You need to tell her about all this, but something holds you back. Karkat hadn't even told his own friends about his blood; he likely wouldn't want you telling anyone, even your moirail. Your mouse has been hovering over the reply button for more than a minute when an alert pops up.

grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began trolling caligulasAquarium [CA]  
  
GA: Hello Eridan  
CA: hey kan  
GA: How Are You  
GA: I Heard There Was A Lightning Storm In Your Area  
CA: yeah  
CA: im fine  
CA: i lost my connection wwhile it wwas goin on  
CA: but it wwasnt a big deal  
GA: That Is Good  
GA: Has Anything Else Of Note Happened  
CA: uh   
CA: not really  
CA: howw about you  
CA: fought any more undead hordes  
GA: Yes Actually  
GA: They Are Always More Common At This Time Of Year  
GA: It Makes Enjoying A Sunlit Afternoon Gardening More Exciting  
GA: Decaying Flesh Might Not Be As Tough As Tree Roots  
GA: But It Does Have A Slightly Larger Tendency To Hit Back  
CA: wwoww  
CA: havve i evver told you how badass you are  
CA: because that is the coolest thing anyone has evver said to me  
GA: Thank You  
CA: also one of the wweirdest  
GA: Thats Very Flatte  
GA: Hey  
CA: i mean  
CA: wweird in a good wway  
GA: Can Weird Be Meant In A Good Way  
GA: ?  
CA: shore  
GA: Alright Then  
GA: I Will Take Your Word For It  


Kanaya is wonderfully easy to talk to. There are no pitfalls in your relationship because it's too simple; you're just friends, and that's enough. You don't have to tell her everything, so you can talk to her about anything.

By the time you close the chat window, all thoughts of talking to Fef have slipped away.

*** 

With the horizon beginning to yellow, you return to your recuperacoon. As you sink in, your mouth is filled with the sharp taste of the schoolfeed, which started dissolving just before you swallowed it.

You feel off balance; your life has been throughly upended over the last few days. You wish someone would tell you how to make things go back to normal.

Eventually, the patternless buzzing of the schoolfeed disc in your computer smooths away your thoughts, and you fall into sleep.

[>Eridan: Get Schoolfed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5216960/chapters/24043692)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schoolfeeds seem interesting, no?
> 
> For some idea about sickle fight mechanics, see [this video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6UumBR7Fzc)
> 
> Any thoughts? Leave a comment or come check out my tumblr, radiantmists.tumblr.com ! And thank you to everyone who has already done so– every time someone tells me they like this fic, writing it gets even more enjoyable! :)
> 
> To any American readers, Happy Thanksgiving!


	7. >Eridan: Get Schoolfed, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ask for what end the heavenly bodies_   
>  _Earth for whose use?  Pride answers, “’Tis for mine:_   
>  _For me kind Nature wakes her genial power,_   
>  _Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower”_

>Eridan: Get Schoolfed, Part I

_{The great superiority of the Alternian is her ancestral memory. Each young troll is born with the knowledge of her ancestor, her caste, and her race stored in her mind. This knowledge allows each line of ancestry, each caste, and all trolls to work as one eternal being for the glory of the Empire. Each successive generation builds directly upon the skills of its predecessor, allowing trolls to become exponentially stronger._

_All trolls hold this knowledge. However, without schoolfeeds to bring it to the surface, it emerges only as talents, instincts, and occasionally dreams.}_

You wake.

***

Of course, my descendant, you are probably wvondering howv I came to knowv your hatchname.

Upon leavwing the presence of the Empress, I took command ovwer the admiral's palace. Once I had ensured that evwery guard knewv who their newv lord was, I set myshellf dutifully to perusing the prevwious Orphaner's record and the other resources avwailable to me.

Of the most interest to me wvas the folder marked in jade. Inside wvere many files I wvill not bother to describe. One stood out, howvevwer; a database of signs and the hatchnames that wvill be assigned to them.

Perhaps you wvonder wvhy I recount this at all. But knowv, Eridan, that it is for you that I make this record. One day, in a future that for me is so distant as to be incomprehensible, I wvill be gone. And in that wvorld it wvill be you wvho wvill carry my legacy forwvard. It is my hope that through this journal wve wvill be as one long life, holding the same knowvledge and the same purpose: to safeguard and improvwe our race, that of the seadwveller.

***

_{It is in this respect that the threat of the mutant is most prominent. The product of weak genetic material polluting the slurry, mutants carry no ancestral knowledge or strength. They are genetic throwbacks to the animalistic precursors to trolls. Allowed to live, they contaminate the slurry and hinder the progress of the Empire through the universe.}_

_{This cannot be allowed.}_

There's a mutant in your home. It must die.

You rise from the slime with the grace that has blessed trolls of your caste for generations. There's a rushing in your veins, a pounding in your skull, a buzzing in your ears and a clear purpose in your mind.

There's a mutant on your ship. _{It must die.}_

You stride out of your room, purposeful but not hurried. It thinks itself safe, has been vulnerable before you. Your lip curls, but you don't take out the Crosshairs. You won't need it, and you wouldn't want to make holes in the ship.

Suddenly there it is, walking down the hallway as though it has the right to set foot in this ancestral home of yours, _{wearing the proud form of a troll as though it weren't a perversion.}_ Even when it sees your face it just raises the curved sword it has stolen, as if you were going to grace it with the honor of a duel rather than the simple extermination it deserves.

_{It is not to be borne.}_

You lunge forward, intending to snap the spine and be done with it, but instead you receive a shallow cut on the back of your neck as the curved blade is hooked around it to pull you down. A foot lands and launches itself off your back, pushing you to the ground. A moment later you are up again and whirling after it, uncaring at the trail of blood you leave behind.

It darts into your room and locks the door just as you reach the handle. It takes you three attempts to smash straight through, focusing all your weight and highblood strength into one shoulder. 

_{There's a mutant in your room. It must die.}_

You barrel into the room just in time to see it smash the sword into your computer. The schoolfeed disk shatters with a high-pitched squeal that seems to echo a moment longer than it should. The sound feels like it's scraping the inside of your skull, and you lean over and retch as your thoughts screech out of alignment.

There's a whirling storm in your mind. As a figure runs past you, you cling to the purpose that seemed so clear just moments ago and follow. Up the hall, down the ladder, through the galley (and you're dripping blood everywhere from the back of your neck, ew). 

You're turning a corner deep in the bowels of the ship when you see him straighten as though he's bent over to rest. You take out your gun– (why didn't you do this before? Why are you doing it now?) as you step forward.

Your foot meets empty air and the world lists sideways– you catch a glimpse of red eyes filled half with apology and half with fear– a jarring pain washes from the root of your left horn straight down to your toes, and you can feel exactly zero of your limbs, you can't see, all there is is the ringing, pounding in your ears– a giddy part of you thinks _oh, that's the edge of the trapdoor_ – a new wave of pain starts in your legs and you have time to think _and there's the floor_ before the agony echoes its way up to your brain and _your horns_ –

You black out.

***

cuttlefishCuller [CC] began trolling caligulasAquarium [CA]  
  
CC: You )(ad B--ETTA not be offline AGAIN, mister!  
  
caligulasAquarium's [CA's]computer has been destroyed!  
  
CC: W)(AT?!?!?!?

***

Your head hurts.

{OBEY.}

You know there's something urgent that you need to do, but it hovers beyond your reach, as does sight. Your vision is dark purple– does that mean something?

{SUBMIT.}

Eyelids, right. It takes you another long moment to remember how to open them, and when you do, you can barely make out the ceiling through the darkness. At the same moment, you become aware that you're lying not in a recuperacoon or even in a chair, but on the floor of the hold.

{CONSUME.}

Your head throbs again, and suddenly you remember that you have to kill the mutant.

You scramble to your feet, then nearly fall back over, catching yourself on the curved wall. You've never been intoxicated but from what you've heard it feels something like this. The little bastard got you good.

There's a sort of fondness to the thought, and you sway again, confused. Why did you need to kill Karkat again?

_{The first duty of a troll is to the three mothers; first the Empress, then the Mother Grub, and then the Speaker.}_

Oh. Because he's a mutant. Right. (Ow.)

You stumble up the ladder to the trapdoor. But when you try to push, nothing happens. You stare at your hand, baffled. Has that stopped working as well as your brain and your legs? But climbing the ladder worked...

It comes to you slowly: Kar- no, it- or he?-- _whoever_ , has barricaded you in.

_{Mutants are like animals, offering no advantage to the troll race.}_

You try to be irritated by this fact and largely fail; too much of your annoyance is directed at the throbbing in your head. Perhaps if you kill the mutant it'll go away. 

Plus, the painkillers are in the galley, so getting out of the hold is your first step either way.

The trapdoor proves impossible to move; you think you're weaker than normal, and wonder how long you've been passed out on the ground here, and how hard exactly you hit the ground. You hope you're not brain damaged or something equally idiotic.

_{Sopor slime is designed to allow a troll to recuperate from most injuries without outside medical assistance. Injured trolls should immediately proceed to the recuperacoon.}_

That would be helpful, you tell your strange internal monologue, if you could get to your recuperacoon. But the door stands stubbornly in the way, not in the least but intimidated by your very intimidating glare. Or at least the glare is usually intimidating; you aren't usually swaying on your feet, though.

Finally, you decide that not dying of possible brain hemorrhage is worth losing your trapdoor, and equip the Crosshairs.

Or you try, anyway. It seems someone has taken your gun away. Probably a good idea, with how unfocused your brain is at the moment.

_{Mutants are barely sentient, uncalculating and incapable of higher thinking.}_

That's not right, you think, derailed once more. Karkat may not really be civilized, but he's definitely sentient. And higher thinking? He's more capable of that than you are at this particular moment.

You wonder at the calm, purposeful rage that overcame you earlier. It doesn't seem foreign, exactly, but you don't see how you suddenly woke up with a voice in your head and dramatically different feelings about mutants. 

_{The first duty of a troll is...}_

You shake your head, not quite able to clear it. Thinking about this isn't helping your headache; you'll deal with it when you're out of here. Speaking of which...

"Hey Karkat! Vantas! Let me out!" That doesn't seem very convincing. "I'm not going to come after you again!"

It's even true, you realize. Voice in your head or not, the uncontrollable urge to kill him seems to be gone, and right now you honestly don't really see why you should.

Of course, if he's barricaded you down here and then gone off and left you to rot you might change your mind.

Scraping noises from above shake you out of your daze. When you push up hopefully on the door, there's obviously still stuff on top, but there's also some more light coming through the crack between the trapdoor and the ceiling.

A note slides through the gap, and you hold it under the light.

ARE YOU STILL CRAZY?

"Excuse you," you yell back, offended. "I wasn't crazy, I was possessed or somefin."

There's no answer, predictably. It sounds stupid even to you.

You sigh. "But no, I'm not going to try to cull you anymore. Can you please let me out? I think I might have brain damage."

There's a pause, then a sharp breath. Another scrap of paper flutters through the slit. 

Your nostrils flare as you pick it up, trying to make out the odd-yet-familiar scent.

ARE YOU SURE?  
======>

You flip it over.

Blood. Troll blood. Red troll blood.

{OBEY.}

Your claws have punctured the paper. You realize, suddenly, that you are growling. 

A piece of paper hits you in the face, sticking to your fins, which happen to be flared in a threat display. You fold them back and clear your throat, then pull the note off.

YEAH, I THOUGHT NOT.

[>Eridan: Get Schoolfed, Part II](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5216960/chapters/24557589)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... hi. I'm back...
> 
> (If you're wondering about the varying format of the schoolfeeds: all schoolfeed are in curly brackets "{}". They are in regular italics if Eridan is just kinda hearing them as voices, and pink if they are directly interfering with his actions.)
> 
> I'm actually pretty proud of this chapter; it's one of the first ones I envisioned for this fic, and it finally feels... right. What do you guys think? Comment below or scream with/at me on [tumblr!](http://radiantmists.tumblr.com)


	8. Get Schoolfed, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scars are only attractive if they have a good story to go along with them.

>Eridan: Get Schoolfed, Part II

You just brutally and passionately mauled a piece of paper with someone's blood on it.

"W-w-what–" You take a deep breath, try to control your stutter. "What's happening?"

(Pencil scratching...)

I'M STILL NOT COMPLETELY SURE, BUT IT SEEMS TO GET WEAKER ONCE YOU'VE METABOLIZED THE SCHOOLFEED. 

"I'm a seadweller," you say cautiously. "We have slower metabolisms."

There's a pause.

YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO WAIT, I GUESS. MAYBE TRY SLEEPING?

Footsteps.

"Wait!"

But he's already gone.

***

arachnidsGrip [AG] began trolling arsenicCatnip [AC]  
  
AG: Nepeta?  
AC: :33 < *the mighty huntress stalks the swashbuckling gamblignant who has unwittingly wandered into her lair*  
AG: As cute as your kiddie RP will always 8e, I don't have time right now.  
AG: My stupid ex-kismesis has gone missing, and normally I wouldn't care, 8ut he's got Feferi all worked up.  
AC: :33 < eridan's missing?  
AG: He hasn't responded to her since the storm a couple nights ago, and the last time she trolled him, she got this message.  
  
arachnidsGrip [AG] forwarded arsenicCatnip [AC] a file: D--ESTROYED.png  
  
AC: :33 < oh no  
AG: So you haven't talked to him? I thought you guys gossiped together all the t8me!  
AC: :33 < no  
AG: *time  
AC: :33 < i mean we talk, but i haven't s33n a message from him since the storm  
AG: I hope th8t dum8ass didn't g8t struck 8y lightning or s8t his stupid sh8p on fire or something!  
AC: :33 < me too!  
AC: :33 < to all of that actually  
AG: Oooooooops.  
AC: :33 < what?  
AG: Listen, Nepeta, I have to go, Feferi's freaking out a8out lightning fires now and Aradia's 8eing useless as usual.  
AG: Can you troll Kanaya and ask her a8out this?  
AG: Her handle's grimAuxiliatrix.  
AC: :33 < oh! is fefurry ok?  
AG: Th8nks, you're the 8est!  
AG: 8ye!  
  
arachnidsGrip [AG] ceased trolling arsenicCatnip [AC]

***

You don't sleep. You spend a while staring at the ceiling, then sit down to think.

Obviously, you have to get out of here. You were only slightly joking about the brain damage: headaches, confusion, and atypical behavior are all signs of a concussion. Judging by the throbbing, you think you hit your horn.

You feel gently along the bottom curve of it. It's all smooth keratin for a while, and then there's a rough patch where it bends. It's not painful to touch, and you conclude that there's no significant damage; it probably won't even be visible. You're glad; scars are only attractive if they have a good story to go along with them, like Dualscar.

 _Banged it falling through a trapdoor_ isn't exactly dashing.

The rest of you is fine; seadwellers are built sturdy, after all, a drop of a few yards would've barely slowed you down if you hadn't hit your head. 

As it is, you need to get out of here. The disembodied voices seem to be shutting up, so you're probably not dangerous anymore. Also, depending on how long you've been in here, people are probably beginning to notice that you aren't responding to messages. (Also you're bored. So sue you.)

You suddenly realize you have a phone. You shove your hand into your pocket, relieved–

And yank it back out, cursing. After wiping blood off onto your cape, you remove your coat and look into the pocket. Your phone is completely smashed; you must have landed on it. You wish they made these things sturdier instead of trying to make them lightweight.

Footsteps. 

"How long are you going to keep me down here?" you yell.

Pencil scratching.

UNTIL YOU DON'T FLIP THE FUCK OUT WHEN I SAY

{SUBMIT.}

You actually hate growling. Some people think it sounds menacing, which, well, it does, but it's also so very... uncivilized.

"Fine," you concede. "Also, that's a very rude thing to say about the empress of the known universe."

I DON'T THINK WE SHOULD GET INTO MY OPINION ON THAT. ALSO, DO YOU HAVE ANY WATER CAPTCHALOGUED? 

"Yeah, I do. I guess if I drink it the stuff will get flushed out faster?"

I HOPE SO. I DON'T KNOW A LOT ABOUT BIOLOGY.

"Me either." You're quiet for a moment; you wonder if he's just going to stay up there and try to trigger a rage every so often. "So how do you know about... whatever this is? Defective schoolfeed? Is this something that happens with pirated ones?"

There's a snort.

DEFECTIVE? IT MAKES YOU RABIDLY DEFENSIVE OF THE STATUS QUO. IN THE WORDS OF SOMEONE I DEEPLY DESPISE: that'2 a feature, not a bug, fii2hdouche. PIRATED SCHOOLFEEDS ARE THE ONLY ONES THAT DON'T ALWAYS HAVE IT.

"That is an awful quirk," you say and are rewarded by another snort. Then your brain catches up. "Wait, are you saying the Condesce is... brainwashing us?"

IS IT THAT SURPRISING? DID YOU REALLY THINK SHE'S SUPPRESSED ANY NOTABLE REVOLT SINCE THE SUMMONER THROUGH FORCE OF PERSONALITY?

You think back to Dualscar's starstruck journal entry about the Condesce.

OH MY GOD YOU ACTUALLY DID, DIDN'T YOU.

"Glub off," you say. "I figured she had an army– two if you count the drones– and Gl'bgolyb. Also what seems to be immortality."

SHE'S NOT IMMORTAL.

{SUBMIT.}

You only growl a little this time. Okay, maybe this is the Condesce's doing.

"How do you know? How do you know any of this stuff?"

I KNOW SHE'S NOT IMMORTAL BECAUSE MAGIC IS TOTAL HOOFBEASTSHIT MEANT TO KEEP LOWBLOODS IN "THEIR PLACE."

"I mean yes, magic is fake, but it doesn't have to be that," you point out. "Life expectancies are exponentially higher as you go up in color, fuchsia could be infinity."

ACTUALLY, LIFE EXPECTANCIES ARE USUALLY DOUBLE THAT OF THE NEXT LOWEST CASTE, WHICH WOULD PUT HER AT ABOUT 12000 SWEEPS. THAT'S FUCKING LONG, BUT IT'S NOWHERE NEAR INFINITY. ALSO IT'S ONLY IMMORTALITY IF YOU CAN'T KILL HER, AND EXPECTED LIFESPAN HAS NO EFFECT ON THAT.

"Fine, she's not immortal. Whatever. The point is, how did you figure this out? The brainwashing?"

IT BECAME RELATIVELY CLEAR THAT THE SUDDEN URGE TO SLIT MY OWN THROAT AFTER LEARNING THE GODDAMN ALPHABET WAS NOT A NATURAL RESPONSE.

"Oh." You try to come up with a more articulate response. "Shit." 

Then: "Wait, how did you... not?" 

WELL, I WAS TWO AND A HALF, I WASN'T CARRYING AROUND A SICKLE YET. BY THE TIME I GOT MY HANDS ON A KNIFE MY LUSUS HAD FIGURED OUT WHAT WAS HAPPENING, AND HE MANAGED TO GET IT AWAY BEFORE I COULD REMOVE MYSELF FROM THIS CRAPSACK UNIVERSE.

"That's... good." Karkat doesn't respond, and you suppose that's fair. For the first time you can remember, you start to really question the world you live in: in what rational society can a barely-foiled suicide attempt be deemed good? 

An even more horrible thought occurs to you. "Is that how you got, you know..."

You don't especially want to say it. The idea makes you feel nauseous.

YEAH.

The scrap of paper flutters, and you realize that your hand is shaking. What did your voice sound like, at two and a half sweeps? Can you even remember that far back? You try to imagine yourself waking up, voice gone, knowing that you were millimeters away from never waking up at all. You swallow, and try not to retch.

"That's..."

You can't. You don't have any idea what to say, how that would feel. ( _I'm speechless_ , some hysterical part of you giggles. Thankfully, you manage to suppress it before you say that out loud.)

There's a silence. You might think he's left, except that you slowly become aware of his breathing above you, far too fast to be normal. He's panicking, maybe having a flashback. You have to do something.

"Are you okay? I mean--" Obviously he isn't okay, could you have said anything stupider? "You probably don't want to ta-- tell me about it. Erm..." Karkat is still practically hyperventilating. What do you say? "Well, at the very least you've got an interesting scar." Oh, you're a glubbin idiot, what kind of comment is that, say something smarter-- "Course, that probably isn't something you want, but I know at two and a half _I_ would have thought it was _awwesome._ " Inspiration strikes. "Do you want to hear about the time I tried to recreate my ancestor's scars?"

There's a louder breath, and you hope that it's a laugh and not further panic. "See, his adult name was Dualscar, cause when he was five, his territory was invaded by a band of tealblooded pirates. He fought them off, but one of them used this nasty flail as a weapon, and he ended up with a pair of scars on his face, he looked so badass, you have no idea. So when I was five, I decided I wanted some cool scars. So I called up my FLARP rival and I told her I wanted to do a campaign..."

This story is ridiculously embarrassing, actually; even at five, you'd known better than to tell Vriska to scar you up, so you'd deliberately pissed her off in the most personal ways you could think of, while at the same time trying to make sure she didn't get so upset that she'd want to kill you. In hindsight, this was likely the event that made her start considering you as a kismesis, and you're glad of that-- it was good life experience even if she did finally dump you-- but the thing becomes exponentially more horrific when you know why you started it, because at the end you chickened out and were left undisfigured. (Which is also fine, telling it like this just makes you sound like a bit of a coward.)

It's worth it, though, because as you keep talking, voice casual and sentences seamless, Karkat's breathing slows. When you reach the end, he snorts, and you smile.

"Are you alright now?"

YEAH...

"Good." You spend a moment wondering what those ellipses were for, whether he's not actually okay. "Is there anything else I can do?"

There's a pause.

OKAY I FEEL LIKE I HAVE TO SAY THIS. DID THAT FEEL KIND OF PALE TO YOU? BECAUSE IT DID TO ME. I'M PROBABLY JUST BEING A SAD, DESPERATE LOSER, BECAUSE OF ALL THE PATHETIC DUMBASSES OUT THERE, WHY WOULD YOU BE HITTING ON *ME*, BUT I'M JUST... ASKING, I GUESS?

Oh god he's right. You talked him down from a panic attack, and you can't even call it an emergency thing because you asked about his feelings repeatedly afterward, and worried about him. It had never even occurred to you that it was pale, but looking back the way you were so invested in comforting him couldn't be interpreted in too many other ways. A voice in your head points out that you aren't even actually pale for Fef, but you shove it aside because you do want her to be able to trust you and cheating is the worst possible way to do that.

(Another small part of you notes that your talking actually worked for him, that he was soothed by your voice, but you just flat out ignore it because that way lies trouble.)

"Sorry," you say to Karkat. "I wasn't thinking, it won't happen again. I'm really not the cheating type, I think I just miss my moirail."

There's a long, drawn out silence, then pencil scratching, but instead of another page being slipped through the door, you hear the sound of paper tearing.

You want to leave, to talk to Fef, but no way can you ask him to let you out. Awkwardness aside, the whole growling-at-paper thing shows he has entirely valid reasons to think you're out of control at the moment. You sit down against the wall and think, _What now?_

Karkat slides the finished note down to you. There's a blur and a small tear from a sloppy erase job.

I'M GOING TO TAKE A NAP. HOPEFULLY YOU'LL FEEL BETTER BY THE TIME I WAKE UP. 

"Fine," you say, because do you have another option?

***

arsenicCatnip [AC] began trolling grimAuxiliatrix [GA]   
  
GA: If You Are Receiving This Message I Have Finally Managed To Set Up Trollians Auto Answer Function  
AC: :33 < what?  
GA: After A Long And Arduous Struggle  
GA: With The Odds Stacked Against Me  
GA: To Clarify If You Are Receiving This Message I Am Likely Engaged In Another Long Arduous Struggle With The Hordes Of The Undead That Harass Me Incessantly This Season  
GA: Although I Am Outnumbered The Odds Are Significantly Better And I Will Be Fine  
GA: Nonetheless I Will Be Unable To Answer Messages For Some Time  
GA: My Apologies  
AC: :33 < oh  
AC: :33 < wow even your answering machine is polite  
AC: :33 < well anyway im nepeta, vwhiskers friend!   
AC: :33 < i mean vriska's  
AC: :33 < i'm the one who helped get her and aradia and fefurry together  
AC: :33 < she's really busy too so she asked me to tell you that eridan's missing  
AC: :33 < i guess you purrobably know him too  
AC: :33 < so i guess let me or vwhiskers or fefurry know if you've heard from him since the storm a couple nights ago  
AC: :33 < oh yeah and fefurry got this message  
  
arsenicCatnip [AC] forwarded grimAuxilatrix [GA] a file: D--ESTROYED.png  
  
AC: :33 < so yeah troll us back  
  
arsenicCatnip [AC] ceased trolling grimAuxiliatrix [GA]  
  
arsenicCatnip [AC] began trolling grimAuxiliatrix [GA]  
  
AC: :33 < oh and also can you tell me what you look like?  
AC: :33 < i n33d it for my shipping wall  
AC: :33 < thanks!  
  
arsenicCatnip [AC] ceased trolling grimAuxiliatrix [GA]  
  


***

You start at the sound of footsteps above you. You don't think you were asleep, but you weren't quite awake either. Everything feels heavy– your limbs, your horns, your thoughts– and the cuts on your hand and neck are beginning to sting.

There's a scraping sound, and you pull yourself to your feet. How long have you been down here? You're not even that hungry yet. Should Karkat really be letting you out so quickly?

The trapdoor opens and moonlight floods into the hold, making you squint. The silhouette looking down at you has long, messy hair. Not Karkat.

"Fef?" 

But no: as your eyes adjust, you realize that the face has no fins, and the horns are all wrong. They seem oddly familiar, though, as though you've seen them in pictures...

Your suspicions are confirmed when the troll gestures and an invisible force lifts you out of the hold. You try not to flail as she sets you down on your feet.

"Megido?"

She grins, maroon lipstick popping against skeleton-white teeth. You shiver. The smile didn't look that unsettling in pictures.

"Call me Aradia! I am your moiral's auspistice, after all," she chirps, and she's definitely a match for Fef's cheerfulness. "Speaking of which, she dragged us out here because she's been really worried! What happened to you?"

"I– Wait, us? Vris is here too?" Aradia nods even as your stomach lurches. "Where's Karkat?"

Aradia frowns. "Who–"

A loud crash echoes from above you. It's closely followed by a familiar, feminine scream.

All the weariness leaves your body, replaced by adrenaline. Your confusion sharpens to a single, sharp point of determination. For just a moment, you see it reflected in Aradia's eyes.

"Feferi," you breathe in unison.

Then you run.

>Eridan: Be the hero. Save the girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think of this chapter as the end of an arc, namely the trusting-each-other-to-not-murder-them arc. I was thinking I'd have a filler/breathing-space chapter between it and the beginning of the next subplot, but I think I like it better like this. ;-)
> 
> Also, I think I'm going to give up on the Essay on Man quotes unless someone is really attached to them.
> 
> Thoughts?


End file.
